8 o'clock. 8 o'clock. 9 o'clock. 91 o'clock. Adam writes sarcastic letter-in reply to one just received— Bends too far over candle and singes hair extensively-says "he always liked to see hair curly at the ends," and seals letter energetically-drops wax on his thumb-feels most essentially waxed, and inserts thumb in mouth to try suction-principle -Adam looks moodily at flame of fire, and thinks of his old flame--broods over the probable suicide his letter will occasion, and begins to relent-calls to mind her beautiful teeth, then declares they 're false; that he won't be gummed by a toothless woman, and concludes to send the dreadful missive-takes out daguer'type, and reflecting on himself, c lculates chances of success in other quarters. Feels abominable pain in abdomen-wishes himself in Spiritland, where all pain is sham-pain-sighs for lapse of time, when he shall be cuddled quietly away at rest-candle burns dimly-Adam feels lonesome-reaches ink-bottle from shelf by mistake; takes mouthful--inky streaks run down from mouth and nostrils-Adam feels streaked-rushes to basket of clean clothes for handkerchief; accidentally coughs; ink flies over linen in all directions-Adam bewilder'd, rinses his mouth with water by mistake for brandy-swallows some ink and water-has slight stomach-ache, and longs for "Internal Improvements." Adam feels better; takes two or three sandwiches and a tumbler of log er-head beer-congratulates himself that he doesn't drink from principle, but from bottle-Tries to sharpen his wits with file of newspapers-notices advertisement of Fancy Ball-calls to mind a hop he attended once, on a time with his Father, in a little back-room of R. R. Depot, where he did the hopping, and his Father was the Switchman— Adam's eye lights on ordinances against thimble riggerswonders if any such laws were in operation when his mother played off such a thimble rig on his head, one day for playing truant sees account, relating to appetite of raw-militia-wonders if they wouldn't eat better if cooked-reads narrative of a horrid massacre; recalls the remorse he once had, for cutting off a dead-squirrel's leg with a hatchet, and looking the other way to avoid seeing the bloodshed. Throws down paper and looks out of window-sees full moon, and wonders why they don't call it bal-luna-thinks in 10 o'clock. this way a witty-schism might be made between Latin and English-Adam is recalled to sober thoughts by boots pinching corns; wonders how he ever came to get corned-finally, concludes he is willing to take bitter with the sweet, and puts wormwood on toe to stop the pain-Notices spider chasing caterpillar-supposes 'tis from force of caterpillary attractionpersevering insect blockades Adam's countenance-Adam makes a strike-hits his own nose; thinks he's humbugged, and concludes to let the little bugger be. Clock strikes-Adam thinks it a trifle fast, and determines to give it a dishonorable dismission from college, as it has been going on tick, to his certain knowledge, for some time-clock puts hands before its face to keep from laughing, and seconds the motion-tongs fall down noisily, killing fugitive spider by a blow on the head-Adam becomes frightened, draws near the fire and fears to stir-sees large black spider running off with dead fly-thinks of body-snatchers, draws still nearer the fire and perspires freely-after few moments of anxious suspense, Adam becomes reassured, and mixes a punch-squeezes affectionately several lemons-consulting his taste as to the kind of liquor required, by trying several bottles-finally suits his taste exactly, and stirs up mixture with handle of broom-brushtakes a few drinks, and jumps up and down to make room for more-execrates the old habit, and drinks remainder of the punch. 10 o'clock. Students outside, serenading Tutor overhead, on tin kettles, tin horns and the like-Adam wonders where he has heard similar music; scratches head; thinks of Beethoven, and is convinced. Adam hears barnyard fowl near by, disturbed by hen-roost depredators, crowing "Yankee doodle doo;" thinks 'tis morning, and concludes to go to bed-Is disgusted with the idea of cramming on Philosophical principles to-morrow, and determines to lie it out again as soon as practicableBlows out light for benefit of dissipated Chum, and passes away like a tale that is told. Scenery. It was On I PASSED a few years in Switzerland not long since, and while there the little Mountain village of Montier was a favorite resort of mine. most romanticly situated between the two summits of the Salive. the East, the mountain gradually slopes down to the plain, where the raging Arve rolls its turbid waters to the Rhine. In the dim distance the snow-clad Alps reared their lofty heads to the clouds. Often have I watched the rising sun, heralding his approach by a mellow light, gradually covering the highest peaks with rosy hues, while the plain was still dark and sombre; stealing on, the rosy hues would change to golden, and soon the glorious orb itself would appear above the "monarch of nature!" Slowly it rose, as if weary of the steep ascent, and upon the summit seemed to pause for rest, looking down upon the gloomy vale, already brightening at its glad approach. Higher and higher it came and surmounting the lofty chain, poured its cheering rays upon the plain below. "Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star in his steep course, So long he seems to pause on thy bald, awful summit, O Sovereign Blanc !" On the West the mountain descended perpendicularly to the plain. There, spread out in all its beauty, was the valley of the Leman: and the clear, placid lake, basking and shining in the sunbeams; on its glassy bosom the long latine sails of the "barques," stretching out like the white wings of a bird, could scarcely be distinguished. At the extremity "Where the swift Rhine cleaves his way between Heights, which appear as lovers who have parted is the city of Geneva, the home of Calvin, the strong hold of the reformation. Even at this distance, the lofty towers of the cathedral are discernible, and at times the musical chimes of its many bells steal gently through the air. Far away "the dark and gloomy Jura," with her misty shroud, shuts out the view. On a jutting promontory of this precipice, from the edge of which the strongest head can scarce look down without a qualm, are the ruins of an old feudal Castle. But one massive tower remains, and that, covered with ivy, is slowly crumbling away. The great quantity of rubbish around, and a part of the outer works, now hardly discernible, show the great extent of ground the walls embraced. It was evidently once a place of great strength. It could be approached but on one side, and small heaps of stones and ruins within a few hundred rods seemed to indicate that there it was well defended. Its lords, a set of mountain robbers, for years resisted every attempt for their destruction, and extended their sway even to the very gates of Geneva. Its last master, betrayed by his second in command, fell into the hands of the citizens with a large part of his retainers. The Castle, deprived of its master and defenders, succumbed after a long resistance. Dismantled and ruined by its conquerors, it now stands a crumbling monument of feudal oppression. The magnificence of the view from thence, and a melancholy pleasure I always feel when strolling around these wrecks of past ages, often drew me thither. Here I loved, on a summer's day, to stretch myself on the soft grass, my head reclining on the battered effigy of an ancient knight, with the beautiful valley at my feet, and look up in the clear azure sky, watch the birds sailing and eddying around in the blue expanse; the swallow darting in among the ivy on the old tower, the hawk and eagle, soaring away among the dizzy heights above. I loved to lay and watch the deepening shades of evening, to see the contrast between the gloomy plain below and the golden and rosy summits around me, all gradually fading away and lost in darkness; the solemn silence broken by nothing save the occasional tinkle of a goat's bell, or the shrill cry of some bird of prey. "The day is done, and slowly from the scene |